


The Man In Red

by letsgobacktoMidnight



Category: overwatch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Character Death, Colorblind until one sees their soulmate, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 12:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgobacktoMidnight/pseuds/letsgobacktoMidnight
Summary: Soulmates are dangerous to have in her line of work. He knows her now. He knows what she is and what she is a part of. He can refuse her, but that’s him just fighting reality. At least he can see the purple of her hair now.





	The Man In Red

**Author's Note:**

> McSombra Week: Day 7 — Sun/Stars

Black and white is what the world sees. Dark or light determines everything, but she hides in the gray, the muted shades that no one looks for.

There are soulmates. Lovers who are destined to be with each other, colorblind until one sees the form of their future. Stories bounce off cracked cement walls and blacktops of the beautiful colors decorating their soulmate. The red of their lips or the brown of their hair. Blue eyes or skin the color of earth.

The word purple has always entertained her mind. She dances in it, acts like the color is hers. Gray washes over her body, her fingernails and eyes but she fits in the unseen colors. She hides in the gray.

She could never give time to finding him. It’s better to not have attachments within Talon. Her friend tells her that it’s better to not have love, least they make you put a bullet between their eyes.

Widowmaker no longer sees colors. When one’s love dies, the world fades back to storm clouds and rain. It becomes empty of the other piece of your soul and colors.

She doesn’t dwell on what could have been. That he’s already pushing up daisies and she’ll never know the colors dotting her coat or the bright flashes on the computer screen. It’s a fantasy that is dangerous and could never fit alongside her scheming and hacking. Colors are a mystery she wants to know, but she only keeps secrets and uses them to her pleasure.

The sun, what people call a yellow, baths the world in warmth. It touches her coat and hair as she runs. Their target is escaping, and it would be a shame to fail a mission twice in a row. Widowmaker isn’t in position. Reaper is dealing with grunts. She races through the pipes and metal of the factory, catching the tailcoats of the poor man who happened to catch Talon’s attention. Feet race on cement, and the factory still bears down upon them with hanging sheets and switching machine belts.

Letting the mouse run, her thermoptic camo slides into place. Quietly following him outside, he runs to the protective hands of Overwatch. Bright eyes and eager smiles lunge at the chance to protect, and she slips to the sidelines. Too many bodies for her to fight alone, but they can’t keep their guard up indefinitely. A weakness with show itself, and she’ll finish the mission.

She gets behind the agents as a soft breeze rumbles the sheets of metal like wind chimes. The music is grating and cuts her eardrums, but silence follows her steps. The man stands behind the shield of Overwatch, and her gun lines up his skull.

The camo is off, and her pistol touches the hair on the man’s head. Before he can cry out, her finger tightens on the trigger, but it is never pulled.

A man stands on a walkway above the factory, a bird’s eye view she didn’t consider. His back faces her but at the brief moment her eyes flicker upwards at the small wave from the serape covering his shoulders, her vision explodes. Bright, vibrate colors that have only been described to her suddenly lighten the world. 

The man screams at the cool touch of metal. Bodies turn, but they only find the man towering in fear, alone.

Her translocator still hums in its spot. She doesn’t move. Her gaze still tilts up, the imprint of the red cloth and brown cowboy hat is burned into the back of her eyelids by the yellow of the sun.

The man in red is hers.

She doesn’t answer when Reaper demands she report in. Her eyes trail the bright colors of purple over herself, comparing it to the red on the man.

It’s her kind of color, after all.

* * *

Research takes a few simple days, but Jesse McCree comes to the light. Ex-gang member taken in after Deadlock as an agent of Blackwatch. Quick in battle and sharp with his aim, he wander after the fall of Overwatch. Laying low save for the few people he help quietly, he only resurfaced during recall.

The man in red, with a hat hiding the face she hasn’t seen in person yet.

She keeps it hidden, playing coy and not linger upon the red blistering sunset or the water lapping a bright blue. When alone, or tapping away at her screens, she watches the twirl of her nails under the light. Her hair was dyed a while ago, but she loves it now more than ever. Grass is bright and leaves change colors.

It all mesmerizes her, because of Jesse McCree.

No time is allowed to think about the few pictures she has of him. No thoughts go to the serape draping over his shoulder, hiding the metallic arm from view. She doesn’t wonder about his lips, or the honey brown irises that could stare at her with awe as his world shifts.

Weeks pass. They have another mission.

Information is wanted from a big company with a fancy logo. Her specialty. The building is dark in the night and the security is high. Omnics, men and machinery prowl for unwelcome visitors. They don’t hear her slip between them like the breeze on a soft day. They don’t see her disappearing form hide behind corners and jump into rooms.

Their system is easy to break, and it’s all hers in seconds. The alarm reacts quickly, but Reaper and Widowmaker buy time. Bullets echo within her room but she knows how to take things with delicacy.

She leaves, hands full, and returns to the mess downstairs. Overwatch has joined the fray, but the security detail cares little for faces or names. A freefall breaks out in bullets and shouting. Reaper and Widowmaker use the chaos wisely, and move with the shadows and gunfire to get away. She watches their exit, before settling down to watch him.

Jesse McCree is skilled, without doubt. He is smart, and confident. A cigarette dangles between his lips with an end that burns a bright red. A color he doesn’t know, one that fits the serape and the will in his eyes.

Her love, on the ground in a fight. The man has a soulmate inches away, the chance to see a real sunset and the foaming tide. Secrets knot up and down her ribcage, but he is more than whispered words and threatening smiles. Her existence is important to the man in red. Her heart beats for reasons besides taking control and learning information.

She wants him to know this.

She rises along the window she hides in, and the camo turns off. Shimmering purple breaks her back into existence as the moonbeams touch her shoulders. In the madness of machinery and bullets, he looks up. His gun points to her, but lowers as his eyes land upon her. Irises, hard but glimmering like honey, hold her like the stars themselves. Through the window, they dot the skies but he only looks at her.

She waves her fingers, a smile tugging her lips before translocating. Her mouth stays like so, claiming it’s from the victory of the information when asked by Reaper.

The man in red will see her soon enough.

Dreams fill her that night about him. Colors, tangible floating orbs, surround him. They paint his body red, pink and green. The orbs pop upon her clothes, her hair, dotting the purple with blue, yellow and indigo. He keeps wiping it off her cheeks, but her hands never move to touch the cowboy hat.

Shivers rake her body when she wakes.

Soulmates are dangerous to have in her line of work. He knows her now. He knows what she is and what she is a part of. He can refuse her, but that’s him just fighting reality. At least he can see the purple of her hair now.

Is he being overwhelmed with the colors on the walls and carpets? Does he understand how impossibly bright his eyes are and how red the serape on his shoulders makes him bold? Is he content that purple is the first color that touches his pupils?

She hums to herself as she swipes across screens, lips pursed at the thought of red.

During their next mission, Overwatch gets an anonymous tip about Talon’s activities. When they come with their bright glamour and righteous ways, she steals behind the war front. McCree positions himself well on high ground, but she reaches him easy enough. Sharp shots echo as his concentration is only on Reaper and Widowmaker, but he hesitates, eyes drifting away every second or so. He’s looking, but she’s right behind him.

When he stops to reload, she lets her camo drop with a small ‘ _ hola’ _ . A startled curse falls from his mouth, but he stills at her appearance.  

Through all the angles and images she’s seen of him, it’s never been this personal. Cigarette and pinewood floats off him in waves that drown her senses, but she wants the tide to take her. His gun is down, and his expression is open, seeing her just as closely. His beard is ruff and his brow is crinkled but that does nothing to mar the raw handsome light to his face.

“Pleasure meeting you—”

Two steps close the space between their bodies and his hand is holding her cheek and pressing his lips to her mouth. Desperate hands wrap around him, caving in from years of solitude to clutch at his neck and back. She thought the first kiss would be hungry, ready to devour everything but it’s slow, and tender. He wants it to be meaningful, so she slows down. Moving with him is like walking with the sun, while she is the shadows darting along a swinging light bulb. Steady. Constant. Warm. Worn hands hold her gently, and they breathe out together when he finally lets go.

“I didn’t think you existed.” The words come from a low spot in his throat as he loosens his hands from her. Retreating, but stopped by her fingers curling around his flesh fingers.

She licks her lips, tasting the smoke and pinewood all over again. Trailing one purple nail over his knuckles, she breathes out, “Think again,  _ vaquero _ .”

They keep themselves a secret, from both Talon and Overwatch. Neither are willing to budge, but at least they understand each other. It’s dangerous to play enemies when neither are actually aiming to kill the other, but it’s the line they walk.

She comes to him in the moonlight, asking him questions instead of finding the answers herself on a computer screen. His drawl is slow and sweet to strained ears. Purple fingernails tug at the red serape and cowboy hat with a wide grin and soft laughter. They work from the first kiss as strangers to something that could be soulmates. He wants to know about Los Muetros, and she slowly unravels the pulled strings holding all her secrets inside. The sun still outlines his form, and he tells her about the stars glittering white against the black blue sky and her purple hair startling him near to death.

He never reveals Overwatch’s plans, not that she pries. Talon is still her own, but if a surprise attack is launched on Overwatch’s agents, somehow they are always ready for it. Reaper gets angry and breaks things while cursing the people in the reforming organization, but McCree isn’t bloody or bruise.

She’ll keep it that way.

Bars or dreary hotels is where they find a small silence in the world of noise. Weeks pass and they begin touching hair and fingers. He lets her outline his jawline and nose, while his lips press against her hair and exposed head. His mechanical arm is no discomfort to her as he first worries it will be. The technology that lines her spine is difficult to explain with her lips, but he doesn’t pull away.

Months pass in quiet stowaways and flitted touches with heated kisses beginning to press them together. His tongue whispers against her teeth how he wants her, how life isn’t worth the colors without her in it.

She hums against his lips, used to lies but unable to tell one now. Red always reminds her of his heartbeat, and green echoes the smell of pinewood. The colors are stained with him in every way, and it doesn’t matter that he isn’t always in her reach.

Soulmates were a faraway thought, an abstract concept she would never participate in, but with smoke on her tongue, she understands.

He’s hers, in every way. No one can take that from her.

“ _ Mi amor _ ,” she breathes the words against his throat. “ _ Mi amor _ .”

“I need you.” He calls her by the name that died when her parents did. The only one who makes her feel real again when it rolls off his tongue.

“ _ Te necesito _ ,” her lungs gasp when he clutches her tighter. “ _ Mi amor _ …”

He is the sun. Steady. Constant. Warm. Her shadow is the stars on a black night, but he still wants her colors staining his skin like a canvas. The truth has hardly mattered, information rules the world, but McCree is the only light she seeks out. The darkness holds secrets but he wants her dim presence.

She cannot live without the sun.

* * *

On the rare cold mornings they get together, red always warm her. His worn hands rub her neck and arms, steady kisses press against her temple as she still dozes. When he’s in the mood, he’ll hum against her in a silent country tune she can never place. Its melody echoes the desert and worn wood with old dogs running, but it settles her heart rate nevertheless.

Drunk, sappy feelings will rise and he’ll start talking about beautiful babies while she simply laughs. They both know it’s not something they can ever think about now, but McCree loves the idea, so she lets him talk about gorgeous babies. A whole family that is currently only a woman with secrets and a man hiding his gaze under a cowboy hat. The thought makes her laugh again, but she knows how to get his lips doing something besides talking about unreachable things.

He’d be a beautiful father, but her thoughts can’t dwell on such things.

They don’t see each other for five days, and it makes her bored and antsy. It’s troubling how much she misses him, but her mask always stays in place when Widowmaker or Reaper come to her with mission details.

This one is important, information on weapons that will greatly assist their efforts so they can expand their dominance. Doomfist is eager to lead and conquer it seems. They have a men helping them, so there’s little to no chance of defeat being accepted here. Talon agents with black masks, guns ready and glinting black.

They arrive to the pristine building of white and flawless technology. She doesn’t even have time to admire their advance systems before agents are breaking down the door to their security room. In minutes, she’s perching on a chair with their computer screens glowing purple. A beauty color, one she’s glad stains her clothes and hair.

Taking it all in a few minutes, she stops to flicker through cameras when the sensors pick up movement through the back entry ways. Her lips don’t slip into a frown at the sight of Overwatch and a brown cowboy hat, but she reports the mission successful before suggesting they take their leave.

“We have guests we need to address.” Doomfist order echoes, and her nails press tightly into her palms. The fuse is already lit but she can make sure McCree is out of the blast radius. 

More fighting, more shouting. Another gun fest she slips through to find him. One of the many bullets shot echoes within her ears as she passes Talon agents attempting to hold back Reinhardt and Tracer. The sound reverberates distinctively before it ceases.

The colors painting her entire vision fades to a dark gray in a silent curtain drop. Her body stops in the middle of the battle. The camo hiding her form slips away without a direct command. A heartbeat echoes in her throat as the movement of her lungs cease.

_ Jesse. _

She races across the ground, desperate and uncaring as her eyes search the black and white landscape wildly. A bullet grazes her shoulder, making her flinch but unable to stop her feet. Someone screams in her earpiece, Reaper, but it’s ripped out in seconds as she dashes past a surprised Lúcio.  __

There’s too much, too many bodies and movement. Red, she can’t find the red in her muted eyes. The colors are gone, leaving her stranded in a black hole as her heart hammers against her ribcage. Quick, shallow breaths leave her mouth as she keeps sweeping the area.

Someone shouts his name, Ana. The old woman with a missing eye is bent over her scope, angled upwards at a perch with roof access.

Her translator flies through the air, barely over ledge before she appears on top of it. Gray, muted stars stare down at her breathless chest. They don’t shimmer and slow the darkness tainting what was once bright and vibrant.

“Jesse.”

The soulmate of her being lies on the roof perch, motionless. Eyes still stare, but there’s no light burning in the honey irises she used to hold for hours in the night. The serape, the gray thing now shines with black liquid. The chest piece is a mess of broken bits and dark blood. His gun is clutched in his fingers. There is no doubt that he killed the one who killed, most likely at the same time.

It comes into her a veins, a ghost filling her lungs with empty air and black smoke. It strikes every angle of her body. On her knees without thought, she takes his shoulders with gentle ease, as if it’s a calm morning and she longs to play with his hair. He rests quietly on her thighs.

She inhales, choking, before closing his eyelids. The dim white is nothing she wants to remember compared to the amber jewels that frame his pupils. The blood stains her pants, but it looks like oil in the moonless night.

The ghost still grips her tightly, making her freeze in a warm summer night while her lungs grasp for anything suitable. He sleeps, and her fingers take his hat, a dark gray that used to make her smile at the ridiculousness of it. Now it lies on the ground.

The shadow in her bones keeps choking her throat, making her sputter silently as she traces his jaw and remember the kisses she used to press to tan skin. The body is still warm. He feels real, even as the broken chest piece and shattered hole in his torso glares up at her. Pinewood and smoke still fill her with familiarity, but its comfort slips away as the stars blink.

“ _ Te necesito.” _

Strangled words, but they leave her throat. A beckon to deaf ears. Useless begging for what she could never have as a girl instead of a shadow. 

The sun sets for the last time in her blood and mind.  

Tracer is the first to find him, but she finds him alone on the rooftop, with his hat hiding his face.

* * *

It’s petty, but she finds the agent who killed him. He’s already dead, McCree never misses but her fists still curl tightly at the person’s identity. It takes only a few days to release the agent’s dirty secrets. It doesn’t destroy his life, but it does taint his death to what little family a man like that has left.

There’s not even the slightly lift to the ghost weighing her veins down.

Their mission was successful, the information all in her hands. Overwatch wasn’t enough of a challenge, much to Doomfist’s disappointment. They pulled back when they saw one of their own down.

The wanted man gets buried quietly. At the Watchpoint, of all places, but they couldn’t do much else. She finds the marking with simple ease. Invisible, she places a chip on the base of the headstone, nearly in the ground. If they move his body, she’ll know. She doesn’t have time to trace the carved letters on the stone. Too many people keep coming to the grave, and the last thing they all need to know is McCree’s love being part of Talon, part of what killed him.

A wish for his serape comes late at night, when it’s nearly morning and her eyes are so tired she can’t focus on the screen. It’s immediately repelled away, there is no meaning in a gray piece of cloth. Red is his, and she at least didn’t have to see it paint him like a final goodbye.

The clothes she wears, the dyed hair and fading fabric mean nothing now. She keeps her disguise, but it’s worn like armor instead of delight of what was once beautiful. Sunsets are rarely glared at now. When she does, it’s just a light turning into black. Now red or pink fading to indigo and cobalt. At least the colors can’t press the memories of his kisses to her lips.

Sometimes, she hunts for candles or waxes with the promise of mountain pinewood, but it’s always off. A few cigarettes have dangled between her teeth, but it only helps the shadow close her lungs even more.

Sombra works, returning to what she has always hunted for. Every movement is heavier now, calculated. Every bullet is fired with a quiet fury. Each secret is a burning vengeance she can’t wait to brand someone with. The ghost pushes her, makes her heavy limbs do dark deeds faster. She lets it pull her along, whether with Talon or for her own mission.

There are still silent moments when she feels the imprint of his hand on her hair. 

Smoke sometimes touches her lips right before she dreams. The ghost wakes with her, and makes her wipe away the tears. She carries on, keeping him in locked memories and careful whispers of his name to herself.

The ghost is with her, always. It fills her chest with smoke and burns away sobs. It’s cold fingers choke her throat until she sees patterned darkness. At every memory of color, the ghost chills her heart. The heavy lead of it’s essence turns her limbs into weak, fumbling messes. 

She should have known better to try and look at the sun. It’s burned her into a blind, dark place now. It’s where she belongs. The girl that was forgotten works best this way. 

Without her sun, it’s easy to stay in the colorless shadows.


End file.
